Idiotic April

Spring
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers. We are way past the spikes of crocus season, Ms. St. Vincent Millay, and deep into the pinks and yellows.  I didn't remember this poem being such a downer, but it surely is fitting for this opening day of April, of Poetry Month, of yet another day of burning sinuses . . .   our friends the Marlins' farm at Antietam from Canal Road